


The John Hart Chronicles: The Soul Trap

by Emma



Series: The Homecoming Universe [11]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:36:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma/pseuds/Emma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of <i>Exit Wounds</i>, John Hart told Jack Harkness he was going to see a bit of the Earth. This is one of his adventures. In the HomecomingVerse it falls before <i>A Very Private War</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

             “Here you go, Captain.”

             “Thank you, Martin.” John Hart sipped appreciatively. “Ah. You have been raiding the Western Isles.”

             Martin grinned. “I can never fool you, can I? M’brother sent it from Harris. He has a friend who distills a few dozen bottles every year, and all spoken for, but when I mentioned I knew a gentleman who was in the way of being a connoisseur, he sent on a bottle.”

             “Please pass on my thanks when you next speak to him.”

             “I will, Captain.” The bartender glanced up at the sound of the door opening. “There are Sir Joshua and Lady Bentley. Every other Friday, regular as clockwork. Strange folk. On the other hand, they are very generous. Excuse me.”

             Hart tilted his glass in dismissal. He had noticed the Bentleys; to be more specific, he had noticed Lady Bentley’s exquisitely matched pearls. They were worth a fortune in a number of markets. He had been considering the logistics of the job for a few weeks and did not foresee any difficulty. The fakes, which he had crafted himself, were tidily concealed in a pocket sewn into the lining of his jacket, and he had left his client in the best suite at the Dorchester, ready to wire the funds into his bank account the moment the client received proof that the pearls were in Hart’s possession.

             He watched as the Bentleys commandeered the best table in the lounge and proceeded to carry on a loud argument about the latest fashionable scandal. They were already half-jugged and heading rapidly for completely pissed, tossing back the Night Scotsman’s best Islay single-malt with abandon.

             Hart despised careless drunks. Even in the fun days before rehab he had known better than to mistreat good liquor.

             A few sharp jerks signalled that the train was in motion. As they left Euston Station Martin appeared at his elbow with a small plate of smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches and sliced fruit. Hart tucked in with gusto. He had missed dinner; it was unwise to break bread with a Correliian, even if it was a client.

             The lounge door opened, letting in a blast of cold air before the newcomer pushed it shut with a hard smack. Hart studied him. A little over six feet, with white-gold hair and pale green eyes, and a rather good body almost concealed under the suit and overcoat. Although the looks were completely different, the man’s fastidious elegance and precise movements reminded him of Jack’s Eye Candy.

             There wasn’t anything written down about not mixing business with pleasure.

             He waited until the man looked in his direction – Hart had noticed that everyone entering the first-class lounge looked around for familiar faces – and quirked an eyebrow in invitation. The man flushed but didn’t look away. Hart watched him as he walked towards Hart's corner table with a long stride that spoke of years spent in a tennis court or a cricket pitch.

             “May I join you?” The voice was low and the question a bit hesitant. “Unless you’d rather…”

             Hart gestured to the club chair opposite him.

             “I’m Cameron Munro.”

             “John Hart.”

             Before Hart had the chance to wave him over, Martin arrived with a glass of his special Harris whiskey and another plate of sandwiches. The amused curl of his lips told Hart that Martin realized he had been replaced as Hart’s bed partner for the night and that he approved of Hart’s choice.

             “Compliments of Captain Hart, sir,” he murmured as he placed the plate and glass in front of Munro. “The lounge closes at one tonight. If there’s anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.”

             Munro stammered his thanks to both. Up close, he looked older and yet more uncertain, as if he was new at the game and was searching for a way to get out of it.

             “It’s late dinner and conversation,” Hart said in his most disarming manner. “Nothing else expected, much less required.”

             Munro studied him for a few moments, and then smiled broadly. Hart was startled to realize that the man’s face, rather attractive in a commonplace way at rest, was strikingly beautiful when animated.

             “Don’t disappoint me,” Munro said, raising his glass in a toast, and sipping. “That is excellent stuff.”

             “Indeed it is. So tell me, Cameron Munro, what are you doing on the night train to Scotland?”

             “Ferrying an old bequest from one odd duck of a client to another.” Munro grimaced. “One of those duties that fall to the junior partner of Munro and McLeod, solicitors, established 1798.”

             “Ah. The family business.” Hart sipped his own whiskey. “Aren’t you taking a risk?”

             He wasn’t talking about the job, and the other man knew it. Munro shrugged. “If anyone’s curious, I have my own berth. Besides, after speaking to Mr. Innes, I’m beginning to think taking a risk may be the one sane thing someone can do at times.”

             He reached into the pocket of his overcoat and brought out a small box. It was carved out of what seemed to be opal, and its hinges, lock, and corner fittings were gold. To Hart it gave off a whiff of _wrongness_ , as if its beauty hid an inner deformity.

             “Behold the one and only reminder of the life of one Robert Innes, Esquire, of Richmond, TW9.”

             Only his years of professional experience kept Hart’s horrified thoughts from showing as he stared at the box that sat on the table, glittering malevolently.

             _What the hell is an Ixen soul trap doing on Earth?_


	2. Chapter 2

            “Not my cup of tea,” Hart said easily.

             “Nor mine,” Munro said. “It’s a toad in the flower garden, no matter how pretty it looks.”

             “Still, there seems to be a story behind it.”

             “Oh, there is. One of those tiresome Bronte sort of stories. Working class boy falls madly in love with laird’s daughter and she with him. They are torn apart by family pressure but before he leaves she gives him a family heirloom as a reminder of their love. Boy goes off to make his fortune but never does quite as well as he thinks he should have, so he never returns. On his death bed he summons his solicitor and requests the heirloom be returned to the original owner, who happens to be another of the solicitor’s clients. Turns out he had chosen us for that very reason.”

             “How annoying for you. And was the boy so unsuccessful?”

             “God, no! Well known architect, made an excellent living at it. But he kept measuring himself against six hundred years of history. The Dalgliesh family is old Edinburgh money and Miss Sarah was the apple of her daddy’s eye. Last one left, now.”

             “Sad.” Hart set down his glass and stood up. “But it did get you here, for which I am very grateful. Last chance to back out.”

             Munro smiled up at him. “What’s your cabin number?”

             Hart told him. “Ten minutes?”

             “Maybe less. I find myself… anxious.”

             Hart left the lounge at a brisk pace. Once in his cabin he took off his boots and hung up his jacket. He looked around; there was nothing that could identify him later. Not that he expected any trouble from Cameron Munro, but old habits were hard to break.

             A few minutes later there was a discreet knock on the door. Hart opened it and Munro slid in. He must have stopped by his cabin, because he wore only shirt and trousers and very casual slip-on shoes. Munro was flushed all over and his breath did not seem to quite reach his lungs.  Even without touching, Hart could feel the slight tremors that shook his frame, as if the Scotsman were running a fever.

             “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

             Munro shook his head. “Mister Boring as Oatmeal, that’s me. But when you looked at me and lifted your eyebrow…”

             “Are you married?”

             “Would it bother you if I were?”

             “Not in the least.”

             Munro chuckled. “Well, I’m not. Divorced a year ago. Poor Lily. I should never have married her, feeling the way I do. About this, I mean. Not that I know how it feels…”

             Hart cut off the torrent of words with his lips. Munro stiffened for a moment and then threw himself into the kiss, sucking Hart’s tongue as it entered his mouth, cradling Hart’s head in his big palms.  Hart slid his hands around the Scotsman’s waist and then lower to cup his arse and pull him tight. The feel of their erections rubbing through their clothes made them both moan. Hart pulled his mouth away and licked a path down Munro’s throat and into the opening of his pristine white shirt. He started to undo the buttons.

             “The things I’m going to teach you…”

             “Promise?”

             “Oh, yeah.”

             He stripped away the shirt and threw it carelessly on the floor. Munro toed off his shoes as Hart dealt with the belt and pushed trousers and pants down to the floor. Munro kicked them away and used one hand against the wall to balance as he removed his socks.

             “You’re still dressed,” he complained good-naturedly.

             “More fun that way.” Hart sat down on the berth and held out his hand. “Come here.”

             Munro obeyed, standing close to Hart, arms at his side, legs apart to counter the rocking of the train. Nude he looked even better than he did in his suit, long elegant muscles covered with a delicate white-gold down and a short but very thick penis standing rigidly out above a heavy sac. Hart licked his lips in anticipation and heard Munro’s answering groan. Slowly he leaned in and swiped his tongue across the mushroom-shaped head.

             “Oh God… oh please…”

             Hart kept working, licking up and down Munro’s shaft and taking short sucks at the leaking head. He looked up to see the Munro’s eyes close as the Scotsman’s body folded until he could brace himself against the wall above Hart’s head. The rocking motion of the train made him sway gently, erotically, into Hart’s mouth. The little mewling sounds coming from his throat made Hart’s heart race. It had been a long time since he had wanted to pleasure a partner more than he wanted his own pleasure. There was something about Munro that sparked feelings he had forgotten he had.

             With one hand Hart located the bottle he had stashed under the pillow. Pouring some lube into his palm, he used the fingers of his other hand to spread the warm gel between Munro’s arse cheeks and into his rosette. Slowly, he pushed one finger in, waiting when the Scotsman tensed, then stroking gently in and out, drawing Munro into the rhythm until he was thrusting hard, his hips working helplessly. Only then did he add another finger and used his wrist to twist them as he aimed for Munro’s prostrate. A few strokes was all it took. With a smothered howl, the Scotsman grabbed the back of Hart’s neck with one hand and poured himself down Hart’s throat.

             Hart removed his hand and helped Munro down to the floor. The Scotsman was shaking, his legs unable to hold him, gulping for air as if his lungs were burning, but he started scrabbling at Hart’s belt almost immediately.

             “Let me, please. I want to….”

             “All right, but first, take a deep breath. For me, Cameron. Breathe, ok?” Hart stroked the Scotsman shoulders and back. “Breathe. Good.”

             “I’m all right. Let me, please.”

             Hart lay pliant as Munro peeled him out of his clothes and licked, sucked, and bit all over his neck and chest, working his way down to Hart’s erection. What the Scotsman lacked in experience he more than made up for with enthusiasm. He worshipped Hart, eyes closed, mouth wide open to take his thrusts, doing whatever Hart suggested with the fervor of a new convert. When Hart pushed him away slightly, he opened his eyes and looked at his teacher with reproach.

             “I want to be inside you,” Hart said, caressing the beautiful face with soft, feathery strokes. “Will you let me?”

             There was a moment when Hart thought the Scotsman would bolt, but then Munro pressed his lips to the crown of Hart’s erection. “Yes. Please.”

             Hart slid off the bed. He pulled Munro forward until the Scotsman was kneeling over the berth, arms spread out on the duvet and knees wide-apart on the floor. Kneeling behind him, Hart opened Munro’s arse cheeks and used some more lube to work his fingers in, harder and faster, until the Scotsman was babbling nonsense into the mattress. Then he removed his hand and thrust in, all at once, muzzling Munro’s howl of pleasure and pain with the weight of his body. He settled over the Scotsman, gripping his hands, head tucked into the crook of his neck, teeth gripping Munro’s shoulder gently. A few thrusts and the Scotsman was thrusting back; they found a rhythm and settled into it, unhurriedly, until neither one could bear it any longer and they slid into orgasm.


	3. Chapter 3

             Hart waited until Munro had fallen asleep and then slipped out of the berth. The Scotsman slept curled inwards, boneless as a cat, faced buried in the pillows. Hart pulled the duvet over him and was rewarded by a soft snuffle.

             He dressed quickly and went out, carefully easing the door shut. The corridor was deserted. After one a.m., when the lounge closed, the attendant was on-call only; the only person he was likely to meet was somebody stumbling half-asleep to the toilet at the other end of the car. Moving quickly, he reached the discreet door connecting the first-class car to the luxury car.

             It was the night train’s best kept secret. From the outside it looked like another first-class carriage. Inside, it was divided into four suites, fully equipped with all the mod cons. At the far end, a cubicle the size of an average closet held berths for the two attendants. Each suite cost about the same per night as one of those boutique hotels in Mayfair that could be identified only by a discreet plate over the doorbell.

             The Bentleys had a standing reservation for the rear left-hand suite. As Martin had said, every other Friday, returning Monday night, regular as clockwork. In the interviews she granted to all the right sort of women’s magazines, Lady Bentley explained that going back to their home in the country was absolutely essential to recharging their batteries, and, much like the Prince of Wales, Sir Joshua needed to check his many experiments in organic farming.

             It was all perfectly tailored to the audience, and delivered with the skill of a former BAFTA award winner, which Lady Bentley was. But it was all a steaming pile of Bentley Farms’ best organic manure. The ‘home in the country’ was run by a team of professionals put in charge by Sir Joshua’s father, and they answered to a very business-like board of directors. Unlike the Prince of Wales, the Bentleys’ only job was to maintain the image that sold organic cheese, vegetable and flower seeds, and manure, among several dozen products. And if, behind the scenes and not too obviously, they acted like complete and utter shits, well, there was enough money to soothe the offended.

             The door to the Bentleys’ suite faced the end of the car, rather than the corridor. Martin had told Hart, snickering, that it was done on purpose so that the guests would have some privacy – and so that the attendants never were in the position to testify about any hijinks that might ensue during the night. Whatever the reason, it made it incredibly easy for Hart. Neither the occupants of the other suites nor the attendants could see him if they stepped out into the corridor.

             It took him less than a minute to open the door. Really, twenty-first century security was a joke. He inserted nose filters, and then, taking a small spray bottle out of his pocket, he inched the door open and gave the bottle a quick pump. The odorless chemical, the invention of one Jack Harkness, deepened a person’s normal sleep. The Bentleys, already self-dosed with large amounts of single malt, would sleep through a train wreck. Finding the pearls, replacing them with the fakes, and slipping out took another three minutes, and he was back in his own cabin in two more.

             Eight minutes. Exactly according to plan.

             He waited until his eyes adjusted to the dark – one of those useful improvements the Time Agency had made to his body – then stripped quickly. Nose filters and gloves went back to his overnight bag, and the pearls were zipped into the overcoat’s hidden pocket. Munro was still sleeping in the same position. Grinning, Hart lifted the blanket and slid into bed, plastering himself against the Scotsman’s back.

             “Ummmm…”

             The sleepy sound had him hard in seconds. “Lesson number two?”

             The Scotsman’s answer was a much more enthusiastic _ummmm_. Munro was an eager student. He spread himself open willingly, cradling Hart between his thighs, his thumbs rubbing circles over Hart’s nipples. His moaned _so good_ as he felt himself being breached shot straight down to Hart’s groin. Bracing himself on his elbows, Hart started to thrust hard and fast. Munro grabbed his head and pulled him down, kissing him ferociously. Hart could feel him start to shake. He reached between their bodies to wrap his hand around the Scotsman’s arousal and stroked in rhythm to his thrusts. The sudden intensity of orgasm arched his back, and he muffled his shout in Munro’s neck. A few seconds later, he felt the Scotsman bite into his shoulder as he spurted into Hart’s hand.

             “Wow.”

             “Yeah.” Hart kissed him lightly. “You are an excellent student.”

             “Can I enroll for the full course?” Munro sounded diffident. “You don’t… I mean… I don’t feel guilty with you.”

             Hart kissed him again. “I think that can be arranged. Hold on.”

             He pulled away from Munro. Stretching, he grabbed the small towel he had left in the sink earlier and wiped them both down, laughing as Munro squirmed, ticklish. Once finished, he settled back into bed, wrapping his arms around the Scotsman.

             “I should go back to my cabin,” Munro said, not moving.

             “My alarm is set for a half-hour before the attendant brings breakfast. You can get to your cabin with no one the wiser.”

             “All right, then. Lesson three?”

             Hart gave him a look of pure deviltry. “I think we both need a bit of rest.”

             “Not that. Show me… myself. You said you would teach me. I know about a woman’s body but I know nothing about my own. Not really.”

             They spent the time until the alarm went off in talk and experimentation. Hart couldn’t remember the last time he had spent a night simply in pleasure, without a hidden agenda of any kind. He liked Munro; the Scotsman was well-educated and witty, and his sexual inexperience was like catnip. Hart found he was looking forward to training him properly.

             When Munro left the cabin early in the morning, Hart had the Scotsman’s business card with all his personal information scribbled on the back in his pocket. A steamy good-bye kiss nearly led them back to bed. _Mustn’t shock the attendant,_ Munro had whispered; Hart decided not to mention that the attendant would probably be Martin, who was more likely to try to join them. Time for that much, much later.

             Hart kept to his usual routine. By the time he was finished, there was no trace of himself or Munro anywhere, down to fingerprints and skin cells. Not that the cleaning staff would notice anything wrong; he carefully mussed the bed to show that one man had slept and eaten breakfast in the cabin. Then he waited patiently until most people had left the train before he disembarked.

             As he headed out, he glimpsed Cameron Munro exiting through the door to Princes Street ahead of him. The Scotsman walked jauntily, and more than one woman – and man! – turned to ogle him.  Once outside Hart lost him in the early morning bustle of buses and people hurrying to their jobs.

             Hart turned towards the Old Waverley Hotel. He had his usual reservation, and a call to the Dorchester to make. He grinned; the money he got for this job would keep him in luxury for a year and he could concentrate on his virginal Scotsman.

             The metal on metal sound of a collision made him look ahead to South St. Andrews Street. There were was the usual confusion caused by a rush hour traffic accident, but then someone screamed _Stop him! Thief!,_ and he saw a man running away towards Waverley Bridge. Someone must have taken the opportunity to do a little early shopping.

             Then the crowd parted and he saw Cameron Munro crumpled under the tyres of a small lorry that had crashed against one of the lamposts. A young woman was tearfully telling a constable about the accident.

             “… and after he hit the poor man and crashed against the lamppost he jumped out and grabbed the poor man’s bag and ran!”

             Hart stood, momentarily frozen by shock. Then the other part of his mind started ticking over with its usual detached clarity. An honest man involved in an accident does not leave the scene, and most especially does not stop to grab his victim’s luggage in the hope that something in it would compensate him for his trouble.

             Someone wanted something Munro had. And the only thing of value the Scotsman had been carrying was the soul trap.


	4. Chapter 4

             Hart dismissed the fleeing man; it wouldn’t be difficult to trace him one way or another. He ran to Munro’s side.  The Scotsman was still alive, but he was unconscious. His breathing was shallow and there was blood seeping from his mouth. Surreptitiously, Hart reset his wrist strap to medical mode and ran it over Munro’s body. There was severe damage to the legs and some internal bleeding, but with proper medical care and a great deal of luck he had a good chance of survival.

             “Sir? Excuse me, sir. Do you know this gentleman?”

             Hart stood up. The young constable had been joined by an older, more experienced-looking one. “I wouldn’t say know, but I’ve met him. Last night. The night train from London. Had a drink at the lounge before bed. His name is Cameron Munro, and he’s a junior partner at Munro and McLeod.”

             “Nice solid concern, that,” the older constable said. “Right up the street here on North St. Andrews.”

             “He must have been going to the office, then. He mentioned he was running an errand for a client.”

             They heard the sound of an approaching ambulance and shared a relieved look. Hart pulled out one of his business cards – the one with a real name, address, and phone number – and offered it to the younger constable. “I’m afraid I have business of my own, but if there’s anything else I can be reached at the Old Waverley Hotel. Terrible business, this.”

             “And stupid, too,” said the older policeman. “We’ll have our hands on the driver within a few hours.”

             Hart, who would have bet half of his rather healthy bank account that the lorry would prove to have been stolen, nodded in agreement. “Well, then, I’ll be off.”

             Graciously waving away their thanks, he lost himself in the crowd of onlookers. Once he was certain the policemen’s attention was fixed on other things, he turned back, resetting the wrist strap and aiming it at the lorry. A glance at the readings told him he had enough to track down the driver, even in a busy city.

             The clerk at the Old Waverley greeted him as befitted an old and valued client and handed him they key to his suite.  Once inside, Hart poured himself a drink and called the Dorchester. Finalizing his business with the Correliian took a few minutes – the pearls to be sent off by courier at the client’s expense after payment was received. Being cheated was not a consideration. After a couple of deliberately severe examples of what happened to people who tried to cheat Hart had become common knowledge, very few people were willing to try. None more than once, anyway, which reinforced Hart’s reputation rather neatly.

             Business out of the way, Hart turned to consider the problem of Cameron Munro. If truth be told, and he tried never to lie to himself, he had been acting out of character since meeting the Scotsman. He had been looking for a good shag and the possibility of an alibi if it became necessary; instead he had spent the night getting to know the man and after the accident had run to his side instead of chasing the soul trap, which, from just the cursory look he had gotten the night before, would have been worth about ten times Lady Bentley’s pearls. Something about the man attracted him and made him feel both possessive and protective, and hadn’t happened since…. Jack.

             He was _not_ going to think about the past.

             He was, however, going to take apart the bastards who had hurt Cameron.

             He set up his laptop, which resembled a regular twenty-first century piece of equipment, but most decidedly wasn’t.  Removing his wrist strap, he linked it to the laptop through a specially designed port in the mouse pad. Cameron had mentioned that the soul trap had originally belonged to a family called Dalgliesh. Old Edinburgh money. One living member, Sarah, the daughter of the family.

             He didn’t have to search long. Sarah Dalgliesh, art expert and philanthropist, lived in her family home in Dublin Street. The family came from the Selkirk Valley, and still had considerable land holdings there. Sarah was the last direct descendant of the Dalgliesh of Ashiestiel. The next heir was a Doctor Anna Charteris currently residing somewhere in the wilds of Canada.  

             The Dalgliesh had been art collectors for at least five centuries, in a reserved way that seemed to match their behavior in general. According to the breathless natter of popular magazine writers and the more measured prose of art experts they had at least one or two superb examples of every period plus a number of curiosities, as a rather kittenish author had put it. One of the photos that accompanied that article showed the soul trap among other things that resembled Egyptian statuettes and Chinese boxes but weren’t. Another showed Sarah Dalgliesh herself holding it in her hands, smiling.

             Something about the woman’s face caught Hart’s eye. He called up other articles and family portraits, going back for about four hundred years. They were a thoroughly Scottish-looking bunch, the Dalgliesh, bluff and blond and tending to marry petite blonde women who seemed to love being fecund, because they were always surrounded by a mob of bluff, blond children. Except… in every generation there was one daughter, or niece, sister, or cousin who shared the same alabaster skin and emerald eyes, long-fingered hands and elongated throats, and most obviously the luxurious fall of curly red hair. Even the heavy-lidded expressions were the same. It was as if… he ran some measurements, and then sat back, nodding to himself.

             It wasn’t a family resemblance. It was the same woman.  And unless there was some sort of wholesale immortality outbreak of the Harkness type – something Hart took leave to doubt – there was some alien living a very long life in the bosom of one of Edinburgh’s best families. An alien who collected _curiosities_ that happened to be of extraterrestrial origin.

             He packed up the laptop and replaced the strap on his wrist. It was time to pay a visit to Dublin Street.


	5. Chapter 5

            Dublin Street was not as aristocratic as it had once been. The lower and ground floors of the Georgian townhouses had been converted to restaurants and shops, and the floors above into flats. The Dalgliesh townhouse, an end-of-terrace three-story beauty, hadn’t suffered any such indignities. A few discreet steps leading down to a door tucked underneath the main staircase signaled the existence of a garden apartment, but otherwise it remained an elegant reminder of another era.

             Across the street and a few doors to the left, the lower two floors were occupied by an Italian café. It was doing brisk take-away trade, but the tables were nearly empty. Hart commandeered a small one by the window, ordered lunch, and settled in to watch.

             Several of the articles he had read mentioned that Sarah Dalgliesh ran her consulting business out of her home. Over the next two hours a few people came and went. Two of them were old, old money, the kind that considered flaunting its wealth to be the worst sort of vulgarity. One was oil money, and one Hart recognized as the head of a notorious Russian crime family. Two of them were definitely not human.

             Finally the comings and goings ended, and a young woman in a simple tweed suit  skipped down the front steps, waving at someone inside. Hart paid the bill and added a tip large enough to leave behind a good impression but not so large as to attract attention, and strolled out of the restaurant.

             As he stood by the kerb, guidebook in hand,  as if trying to decide what to do next, he was startled to feel his wrist strap start to vibrate. Before leaving the hotel he had fed the biochemical readings he had gotten from the lorry into the tracker. A soul trap being inoperable by the vast majority of twenty-first century humans, he had been working on the assumption that either the thief or the buyer or both were aliens. He knew that, like most British cities, Edinburgh had a tiny colony of extraterrestrial immigrants, but he wasn’t about to go barging into it without something solid to go on. He had planned to use whatever information he could squeeze out of Sarah Dalgliesh to start the search, and then use the tracker to pinpoint the man’s location.

             He certainly didn’t expect to have him walking up the mews that ran alongside the Dalgliesh townhouse wall, cheerfully swinging Cameron’s overnight bag from one hand.

             The thief was a small man, with the balance and economy of movement of a martial arts student, and a peculiar way of holding his head to one side, as if listening to something nobody else could hear. Hart noticed that the people who passed him tended to steer clear of him, like one usually did with the bullies or the crazies.

             He waited until he was sure the man was aiming for the steps leading to the garden apartment, and then moved fast. There was a bus lumbering up the street; he would look like just another tourist doing the usual mad dash. At the last minute he veered off and vaulted over the railing, dropping into the tiny sunken courtyard directly behind the thief. As he came up from his crouch, he pulled his knife from its boot sheath and slid it in right under the man’s ribs, exactly as he had been taught by his Time Agency instructors. The thief was dead before he could register it, folding down over Hart’s arm with a soft sigh.

             Picking up the keys the man had dropped, Hart opened the door. The tiny entryway was furnished with a high-backed bench with hanging knobs across the top and a hinged seat. Inside there were just a few blankets and several pairs of wellies. It took a little effort, but he was able to stuff the body inside and cover it with the blankets. He searched through the overnight bag until he found the soul trap. Dropping it in his coat pocket, he shoved the bag on top of the body, and closed the seat.

             The room beyond was long and narrow, but given a pleasant sense of airiness by the French doors looking out over a traditional rose garden. Hart was more interested in the spiral stairs leading upwards through the ceiling. It would seem that Cameron’s would-be murderer had direct access to the Dalgliesh household.

             The stairs emerged into a small butler’s pantry next to a small but efficient kitchen. Beyond the kitchen door, a corridor led to an exquisitely Georgian entrance hall having two doors on one side and another door on the other. A sweeping staircase curved upwards to the first floor.

             The two doors on the left led to a double drawing room decorated in the grandest style. The Dalgliesh family had preferred Hepplewhite over Chippendale. One of the family portraits was definitely a Gainsborough, and over the smaller fireplace at the far end hung a Turner.

             “Do you like it?”

             He turned unhurriedly. He had known she was behind him; to someone with his enhanced olfactory sense, her scent was immediately recognizable. “I do, yes.”

             “Not that it will matter in the end, but may I know why you are in my drawing room without being invited?”

             “Certainly. I was following a murderer, and it led me here.”

             “Ah. I’m not going to see my dear Markos again, am I? Pity. Such an useful man. You are a friend of Cameron Munro, then. Does he know what you are?”

             “No more than anyone in Edinburgh knows what you are.”

             “Ah.” No surprise and no attempt at denial. “What gave me away?”

             “Family resemblance can only explain so much. Especially when one has other explanations at hand.”

             “Indeed. That was always the weak point, although most others like us give me a wide berth.”

             “Not many people would want to tangle with an Ixen ghoul.”

             “Such an ugly name.”

             Hart rubbed his hands together then slid them in his pockets. “Sorry. Not used to the Scottish weather yet. The story Cameron heard was not exactly the truth, was it?”

             She laughed, throwing back her head and exposing the long neck. “Not really. Poor Robert managed to escape with my little toy. I was reduced to… other means of feeding. Still, I knew he would send it back in the end. He asked to be cremated, did you know?”

             “Logical. He couldn’t risk an autopsy. Even if the change was permanent, his insides would have given the game away.”

             “You are very good at this. And do take your hands out of your pockets. I can feel the soul trap from here.”

             Hart gave her a grin and a little shrug. “Sorry. Had to try.”

             “I’m sorry, too. Really.”

             Suddenly the beautiful red-headed woman was gone and in her place was a creature not unlike a bird, gleaming red scales cascading from the bony crest at the top of its head to its three-toed feet. The arms ended in three-fingered  hands with long claws, sharp as straight razors. Where its mouth would be was a beak surrounded by hair-like tentacles. She was actually quite beautiful, but he knew the survival statistics of males who tangled with one such as her.

             She lunged at him, arms outstretched. He dove out of the way, rolling on the Aubusson carpet as he reached for his knife. She stopped, turned, and lunged again, all in a single movement, so fast that her scales _clickety-clacked_. As she reached him, he was already moving upwards, knife thrusting. The blade caught on the thick leathery skin covering her front, but her own momentum drove it under her arm. Her screech nearly deafened him.

             He tried to pull the knife out but it was tightly wedged. She swung at him, screeching again, and smashed the back of her hand against his head, lifting him off his feet and slamming him against the wall. Dizzy, he managed to reach into his pocket and pull out the soul trap.

             “Give it to me!” She screamed, words barely recognizable in a mouth not meant for human speech. “Give it to me!”

             His mouth stretched in a death’s head grin as he activated the trap and tossed it at her. “It’s all yours.”

             She screeched and screeched as the trap’s neural fields immobilized her.  He watched, smiling the whole time, as her essence was sucked into the box, twisting in agony, until the only thing left on the carpet was a small greasy stain.

             He managed to get to his feet by holding on to the legs of the grand piano angled between the fireplace and the wall. Once he was sure he could move without throwing up, he retrieved the trap. It felt warm and full in his hands.

             “Don’t worry,” he said, smirking. “You’ll make some Grand Prince a marvelous meal. And Cameron will have the very best care money can buy.”

             He left the house by the garden apartment entrance and strolled up towards Queen Street. As he reached Abercromby Place he noticed a constable on foot patrol. “Excuse me. An acquantaince of mine was hurt in a hit and run this morning. How would I go about finding out which hospital he was taken to?”


End file.
